


The Other Doctor

by QueenPersephoneofHades



Series: Immortal Agents Aren't Hard to Come By [1]
Category: Forever (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 15:23:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3415712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenPersephoneofHades/pseuds/QueenPersephoneofHades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Contrary to popular belief, Henry Morgan did, in fact, have a cellular phone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Other Doctor

Contrary to popular belief, Henry Morgan did, in fact, have a cellular phone.

It was always on, always charged, and had a home in Henry’s pocket right beside his beloved antique watch.

But he never used it, never touched it, never gave the number within to anyone, even when confronted directly.

It drove Jo absolutely mad; when a psychotic killer was on the loose leaving a trail of bodies behind him, having the M.E. that could usually figure out the murderer’s shoe size and profession just from glancing at one of his victims on speed-dial could never hurt.

Once, when he’d disappeared for five hours and no one could find him while a car bomber had been on the prowl, Jo had outright asked him for his number, because just because they’d found the guy in time didn’t mean they could be careless.

Henry had looked her straight in the eye and said, “I would love to, Detective Martinez, but I’m afraid there are bigger things out there than madmen with knives.”

Flat out rejected.

He hadn’t even called her ‘Jo’.

She’d stalked away, silently fuming and ready to rant at Hanson for a solid hour or two if they had the time, when she was interrupted by a call of, “I _am_ sorry, Jo!”

She stopped, but didn’t turn back, because she knew once she saw the kicked puppy look in his dark eyes she would be more likely to forgive him. Breathing a sigh, she shook her head and continued on her way.

They didn’t speak of the matter for a long time after that.

In fact, Jo was certain the matter never would have come up again if not for the fact that during a rather routine autopsy, his phone _rang._

The reaction was instant; she’d barely turned her head toward the sound of the unfamiliar tone when he was moving, handing – all but shoving – his instruments into Lucas’ waiting hands and pulling off his gloves, muttering, “Sorry; this will only be a moment-” before slipping into his office and pulling the phone out, turning away from the glass doors so no one could decipher what was being discussed.

Jo blinked, completely in shock for a moment – it was one thing to carry the device around and not use it; now he was receiving calls, when he’d denied to even give _her_ the number? – as Lucas cast a furtive glance toward the office, humming thoughtfully as he cleaned the tools he’d been given.

“There it goes again,” the blonde man sighed, and Jo turned to him, intrigued; it was obvious from the tilt of his lips that he was eager to say something ( _gossip_ ) on the matter, and who was she to deny his wish?

“Again?” she inquired, leaning her weight on one leg and crossing her arms, quirking an eyebrow up as the assistant M.E. looked over at her, mischievous smile already forming.

“Yep,” he said, popping the _p_ , “He never gives the number out to anyone, refuses to let me even hold it, but every once in a while he gets a call. Goes right into his office and won’t let anyone listen in, usually leaves right after-”

“I am so sorry, Detective Martinez,” the British man’s voice cut into their conversation; he’s already shed his lab coat and donned his jacket and scarf, coming forward to accept his cleaned tools from Lucas and pack them back into his case, picking said item up and turning to the lab’s exit in a flurry of activity that is completely unlike him, “But it seems I have some business that requires attention of the immediate variety.”

“What about the case?” she calls after him, gesturing to the body still lying half-open on the table as the good doctor practically flees.

“I’ll look into it tomorrow; I really must be going!” Henry called back, and he narrowly avoids colliding with an orderly as he bursts out into the main hallway and heads toward the elevator.

Both of his friends, left behind, share a long look.

“- and never says a word about what happened when he comes back,” Lucas finished, turning back to their deceased compatriot and covering him with a sheet.

“You don’t know what he does?” Jo asked, only half-skeptical; half the time it seems no one knows what happening in the man’s head, Henry included.

“Nope. I’ve asked him, like, twenty times now, but he never says a word about it, just starts spouting a lot of random stuff until I get sidetracked and lose interest. It’s a lot easier than you’d think,” Lucas admits, blushing the slightest bit, though Jo has the sense not to point this out.

“Does this happen often?” she asked, allowing her eyes to drift back to the door Henry had disappeared through.

“No, but whenever it does, weird stuff tends to happen.”

“Like what?”

“Well,” he begins, before glancing around them suspiciously to ensure no one was listening and leaning forward conspiratorially. She mimicked him, feeling like a junior high school student gossiping about Hannah’s brother again.

“The last time he got a call, five days later the Battle of New York happened.”

* * *

 

“I honestly didn’t expect this from you, Doctor Banner.” The cutting, absolutely disappointed tone the sentence was spoken in was enough to make anyone feel guilty, even the man who was, physically, older than the one sewing up his shoulder.

Bruce Banner winced, keeping a careful hold over his emotions as needle and thread moved in and out, in and out of torn flesh that was already threatening to turn green at the edges.

“It’s not like I _tried_ to get sliced by gigantic lasers,” he said petulantly, feeling like a ten-year-old getting a scolding over a skinned knee after running about like a maniac.

“I thought you _couldn’t_ get sliced. Period.” Spoke up Clint Barton, the infamous archer lounging on a hospital bed across from Bruce’s. Well. I say _lounged;_ it was more like slumped over, holding his ribs with an uncomfortable grimace that he was doing a horrible job of passing off as a smirk.

“Well apparently, these were special lasers,” spoke up Tony Stark, sitting in a chair across the room and fiddling with a piece of said lasers, inspecting the components with a careful eye.

“Well _apparently_ , you should no longer run out so haphazardly when on a mission against people who have been studying the Hulk,” Henry Morgan said, finishing the stitching and cutting the extra thread off, giving the other doctor a severe look as he got up to inspect Hawkeye, who looked far less enthused by such a prospect.

“I can’t control the Other Guy when he gets that angry!” Bruce protested, turning his head to inspect the work the other man had done. It was a fine, professional stitch, obviously well-honed by years of skill; then again, he expected no less from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s immortal asset.

Henry has nothing to say to that, though he does scoff rather loudly as he inspects Clint’s damaged ribs and proceeds to wrap them despite the low grunt the archer makes at the movement.

“I’m just amazed you didn’t Hulk out again after getting hit,” Clint admits, a strained grin crossing his face while Bruce grimaced and Tony sniffed.

“Brucie’s got more control than that, you simpleton. And he wouldn’t have been hit in the first place if you’d hit the control panel like your girlfriend told you to,” the billionaire says without even looking up.

Clint growled, ignoring Henry’s disapproving glare as he sat up straighter. “Hey, who was busy taking out half the enemy forces while you were off who knows where?! All you did was show up in time to take the glory, as usual!”

Tony did look up at that, looking quite insulted, but before he could start Henry bit out, “Enough.”

Reluctantly, the two juvenile men did as told, pouting like children. Bruce sighed.

Tying off the bandage, Henry leaned back with a sigh and cracked his stiff neck tiredly.

“I suppose Fury will want a word with me after being absent for thirteen months,” he said tiredly, to which Clint nodded.

“I know you needed the break, Doc, but it’s good to have you back,” he said with a wry smile.

“Temporarily back,” Henry corrected, getting to his feet and grabbing his mostly unused tool kit. “I’m still owed about five years of vacation time, if you’ll recall.”

“Never let it be said the founding member of S.H.I.E.L.D. is a workaholic,” Tony drawled sarcastically, which earned him a roll of the eyes from the immortal as he walked to the door.

“Anthony-” here Henry ignored the pursed lips that came from his full name, “When you’ve been around as long as I have, you need to enjoy the vacations. Not that you don’t already, of course.”

Tony shrugged shamelessly.

Bruce just smirked.

The other doctor the Avengers relied on to treat their wounds was an odd one. But, more often than not, he was right too.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N:… don’t ask where this came from. I thought of it during choir practice and now here it is for the world to see. Henry as a founding member of S.H.I.E.L.D. was too awesome a chance to give up; how could I not?


End file.
